


The Aftermath

by Bodldops



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2010
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:29:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodldops/pseuds/Bodldops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bunter should really know better than to leave his Lordship alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gumbie_cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gumbie_cat/gifts).



Bunter surveyed the wreckage gloomily, glad that the lady of the house was away, visiting friends in Oxford. He’d only just returned himself, expecting to find the master of the house reading, or idling the time away on some small project or other. His Lordship had most sincerely (or so he’d thought!) sworn that he would behave himself mildly and meekly while he was away – an unexpected summons from his family had prompted him to ask for a brief leave of absence, despite the fact that his leaving would mean Lord Peter would be alone for five days. He’d tried to convince Lord Peter to go to Duke’s Denver during that time, but Peter would have no part of it – too much work to do in London, he’d said, too many contracts he had to oversee. After all, he had his club if he felt the need for company, and he was hardly an invalid. This, it seems, was Bunter’s reward for trusting that earnest promise. The scene as a whole was almost too much to take in, so he went by pieces over the room.

The suit coat flung over the back of the couch looked as if it had once been of fairly good quality… some decades ago. The shininess of the patches at the elbows and the disreputable state of the cuffs and collar, never mind the general thread-bare appearance of it, spoke of long and hard use. The loafers, in a hideous shade of brown, were badly scuffed, as if his Lordship had purposefully dragged the leather uppers over every cobblestone in London. The tie hanging off the lampshade… the less said about the tie, the better. Those particular colors were never meant to share the same patch of cloth. Bunter quietly picked all of these up and created a pile by the door for later disposal. Perhaps, for good measure, he should make sure they are incinerated.

There were an array of hideously fashioned eyeglasses on the side table – evidently just one pair wasn’t enough to satisfy his Lordship’s longing to facial monstrosities. One pair, done up in a washed-brass frame with tinted lenses, was bent, the right lens cracked across the center. Someone’s fist or foot had been applied with great force, it seems.  Other bits and pieces of various filthy outfits litter the room – socks, fingerless gloves, even a garish pair of suspenders.

In the middle of the chaos, sprawled boneless on a divan, was his Lordship himself – in disreputable trousers and shirtsleeves, just as filthy as his discarded clothing. The troubled line of his brow showed his rest wasn’t altogether peaceful. Gingerly, Bunter picked his way through the mess, neatly rolling up his sleeves as he went.

“My Lord?” He asked, tentatively, once he was close enough to reach out and touch the worn fabric covering the too-thin shoulder. Peter did not rouse to the gentle call, sleeping the sleep of the innocent… or the guiltily exhausted. No, that’s not true – leaning closer, he could see that the lines of worry and strain around his master’s eyes had deepened, the grime making the creases dramatic.

“Lord Peter?” He tried again, shaking the tow-headed man’s shoulder firmly. He wasn’t rewarded with wakefulness, but he was answered. Peter muttered in his sleep, in flawless unaccented German, something rough and strained and not entirely discernible. Bunter frowned – there aren’t any war memories that make peaceable dreams.

“Major Wimsey!” He barked, finally, in full sonorous Sergeant’s tones. Peter started awake, and for one long moment, Bunter wasn’t sure where his master’s mind was – in London, or back in the trenches of France. Peter blinked at his manservant blearily, squinting in the late-afternoon light that filtered through the windows of the London house’s drawing room.

“What, who… Bunter? The confused questioning resolved into the more familiar (and reassuring) educated drawl, though clearly with effort. “Back already? Too soon, I fear, I meant to do something about…” He paused, studying the chaos around him. “Things did seem to get a bit out of hand.” It’s an absurd image, the normally composed noble as the bewildered centerpiece in this study of disorder. Bunter bit his tongue to keep from laughing, and helped Peter find his feet – the first step to sorting this mess is to get the master of the house back to his usual immaculate self. One might be confused who exactly ruled in this house, watching the scene – Bunter, ignoring Peter’s sleepy explanations, herded the errant lordling into the bathroom to send the grime covering him down the drain. While Peter was busy on this task, Bunter tackled the rest of the chaos with grim thoroughness. In no time at all, it seemed, order had been restored (and there was a very large bin out back, ready for burning).

From the master suite, Bunter could hear singing, and paused to listen for a moment. The fair baritone is singing in French, something about springtime – a good sign, all in all. It would be better if he was singing a love song of some sort, of course, but it is better than something morose, or (Heaven forbid) a military tune. Disposing the disreputable eyewear into the trashbin with a clatter, he goes in search of his charge.

He found Peter contemplating the week's worth of stubble he'd accumulated in a dangerous fashion, so he wasted no time in locating the shaving kit. "What do you think, Bunter, would a bit of a beard give me a roguish air?" His lordship asks, but there is an impish spark in his eyes that reassured him that he was being teased.  Refusing to take the bait, he goes on sharpening the blade of the razor.  "But I have missed you these last few days - couldn't be helped, couldn't expect an interent hansom driver to have a valet.  Hmm?  Yes, spent the last few days as a jolly old hansom driver, and it's startling the language used, you know.  Not too many left in London, they should be more properly appreciated." 

While Bunter is relieved to hear his master's usual cheerful rattling-on, he can't quite find anything to say in the face of his lordship posing as someone catering to the tourists and the nostalgic for any period of time.  Something of that must of shown on his expression, because Peter laughed, displaying his hands.

"See?  I've even earned callouses, dreadful things, I suspect you won't be satisfied until they are gone.  Anyway, had to be done, Charles needed an inside man again and after that lark with the advertising agency, how could I say no?  After all, Lady Marchalm's prized rubies, never mind the life of her much-abused butler, were at stake.  Unpleasant sort of person, Lady Marchalm - too much inbreeding, I shouldn't wonder, what?  Still, where there's money involved, anyone can seem attractive.  Seems she had herself a lover on the side - can't blame the old girl, if the Lady is unpleasant, the Lord is downright disagreeable.  Always droning on about his health, how very tedious.  Still, you'd hope she would have more sense than to give away prized jewelry, but love rarely makes men wise, does it?  Away go the rocks, and wouldn't the Lord want to see his Lady in red rubies at the very next ball?  Left her in a bit of a fix, you see.  Can't imagine they'll be able to hire on good help now, what with her falsely accusing the butler.  Seemed a steady sort of man, they'll have a devil of a time sorting that mess out."

Bunter, bemused at this flood of information, shakes his head as he whips up the shaving cream.  "And the rubies, my lord?  Were they found?"

"Old Parker is basking in their fiery glow as we speak... well, he was, they may be well in evidence by now, more's the pity, they're a handsome set.  Poor fool hadn't yet had time to get rid of them, had them hid up in his flat.  He'll be away fro some time for this, won't be able to settle that debt that got him in trouble in the first place for a while. Though..."  A wistful tone seeps into his voice as Bunter begins applying the cream.  "I did have a rare old time with the horses."

He'd only just finished making Lord Peter presentable for decent company again when Lady Harriet was announced into the house, much to his lordship's joy and Bunter's relief.  Cheerfully Peter took himself off to regale his wife with this latest adventure, leaving Bunter to soak it all in.  Bunter, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of his master’s latest adventure, went downstairs to make sure the kitchens knew that Lady Harriet was home. After all, even if his lordship chooses to pose as an out-of-work performance artist who does a bit with horses to investigate the mysterious disappearance of fine jewelry, there is still a house to maintain.


End file.
